


thoughts of the soul

by emma_394, OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [89]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, and then you both gain catharsis thru one of those pieces, and uses it as the cover for a notebook., tfw your lover saves your jacket from the day you cancelled the end of the world, where he puts things about you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_394/pseuds/emma_394, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Newt finds something Hermann's forgotten about when they move to a new flat; catharsis ensues.





	thoughts of the soul

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: ""they say the hero wins once the villain dies, but darling, i lost the moment you fell.""
> 
> many thanks to emma, who wrote the lyrics

“I hate moving,” Newt gripes, and nudges one of the boxes with his toe. “What even is _in_ this box, Herms?”

Hermann, sitting at the bar counter, having taken a break from unpacking for tea, sighs. “I honestly have no idea,” he replies, “I’m fairly certain that box has been in storage for…” he pauses, thinking. “At least a year,” he decides, “if not longer.”

Newt hums. “I don’t remember moving into the penthouse being this bad,” he comments.

“Do you even _remember_ moving into the penthouse?” Hermann asks drily, and takes another sip of his tea, watching as Newt pats his pockets for a key to slice open the tape. “Use a _knife,_ Newton.”

“I can do what I want,” Newt shoots back, “and, to be fair, I’m pretty sure that I hired a bunch of people to move and unpack my stuff for me when I moved into the penthouse.”

“Hmm.” Hermann sets his cup down, jaw cracking as he yawns.

A second later, Newt mirrors it, and then scowls; rips through the tape with a bit more force than is probably actually required, and nearly gives himself a cardboard splinter. Once he actually opens the box, though, the contents don’t disappoint.

“Holy _shit,_ Hermann,“ Newt says, and holds up a tee-shirt that says _K-Science Bros_ on it. “You _kept_ it?”

Hermann scowls at him, ears red, and says, crossly, “Only because I didn’t remember to throw it out.”

Newt smiles at him; Hermann really _is_ adorable sometimes.

The next item he pulls out is a bit more puzzling; it’s a black-bound notebook, but the texture of the material on the cover—leather—seems oddly familiar.

He holds it up for Hermann to inspect; tips his head questioningly.

“Oh,” Hermann says, and gives a light cough. “That's—er, well,” he starts, and then stops; fingers tapping at the counter, a tic he picked up from Newt; starts, again. “Your jacket wasn’t salvageable as a garment, but it seemed wrong to simply throw it away,” he explains. 

Newt stares at him for a moment; puzzled; and then it clicks. “Wait,” he says, “you mean—the jacket I had back in Hong Kong? The one I had to throw away after V-K day?”

Hermann nods. “I—well, I rescued it, against my better judgement,” he admits. “I think that notebook’s got sketches in it—either that, or it’s full of illegible notes.”

Newt barely hears him. Reverently, he runs his hands over the leather—it’s soft, even now, clearly well-used, and it’s free of any blood, dirt, and dust that drove Newt to toss the jacket in the first place.

When he opens the cover, he nearly drops the notebook; there, on the first page, is a sketch of him—from their disastrous first meeting. He remembers that moment exactly; he’d spotted Hermann and beamed, feeling breathless and wild. “I didn’t know you remembered,” he murmurs, looking up at Hermann.

The other’s frozen, cup half-raised. “Oh,” he says, softly, after a moment. “Yes, of course I did. It was…” he swallows, glancing away for a moment. “I drew it the day after,” he says. “I thought—I thought that you’d never look at me like that again, so I wanted…I wanted to have a way to remember.”

Newt blinks rapidly, trying to ward off the tears that are starting to prickle at his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says, mostly to himself, and stares up at the ceiling until his eyes are dry again. He glances back down at the notebook; flips to the next page.

It’s a collage piece; his name put together from cut out letters, various images—beakers, a wormhole, a bioluminescent jellyfish, the Berlin skyline, and more—connected in a web by delicate, straight blue lines; each image captioned in Hermann’s tiny, immaculate hand.

Newt sits on the floor, barely aware of anything besides the book in his hands; Hermann, he thinks, says something, but it doesn’t register; he’s lost in this time-capsule of Hermann’s thoughts—thoughts of _him._

He leafs through the pages carefully, barely daring to breath; as if the action will disturb the odd sense of calm and peace that has washed over him.

Hermann’s hand is on his shoulder—he must have sat down by Newt’s side, but he’s not saying anything; not anymore; but Newt can, peripherally, sense the worry radiating off of him but he—

He doesn’t think he can _speak;_ not now.

The next page has watermarks on it; _tear-marks,_ Newt realises, a moment later; it’s a poem—no, a _song,_ written in three different parts; three different writing utensils—to start, pen, dark blue, then a red marking pen, and then, finally, the last is written in pencil.

(He doesn’t miss that the second part is written in a shaky hand; the letters retraced repeatedly so that they’re barely legible; the ink leaking through to the other side of the thick paper.)

> _I remember the first time I slept_
> 
> _in the arms of my sweet nuisance_
> 
> _never in my life had I felt so safe_
> 
>   

> 
> _as usual feelings were a mistake_
> 
>   

> 
> _we started walking on eggshells_
> 
> _that shattered like the weakest hopes that I had_
> 
>   

> 
> _my sweet nuisance_
> 
>   

> 
> _sometimes I get the feeling you’re becoming someone else_
> 
> _sometimes I get the feeling something’s wrong inside your head_
> 
> _then I remember, leaving me is only sane_
> 
>   

> 
> _then came the day a man’s psyched eyes made the Earth shake_
> 
> _then came the day my man’s haunted eyes made my heart break_
> 
> _they say the hero wins once the villain dies_
> 
> _but darling I lost the moment that you fell_
> 
>   

> 
> _sometimes I had the feeling you were becoming someone else_
> 
> _sometimes I had the feeling something was wrong inside your head_
> 
> _but then I though that leaving me was only sane_
> 
>   

> 
> _maybe if I’d believed it when you said that you love me_
> 
> _maybe if I had it wouldn’t be like this_
> 
> _I’m not good at being loved, and it’s too late_
> 
> _but please, please let me try again_
> 
>   

> 
> _my sweet nuisance_
> 
>   

> 
> _sometimes I get the feeling you’re no longer someone else_
> 
> _sometimes I get the feeling it’s just you in your head_
> 
> _and I remember, love is our only chance_
> 
> _  
_
> 
> _my sweet nuisance_
> 
> _my sweet nuisance_
> 
> _my sweet nuisance_

He traces the tips of his fingers over the words; the pain in them is obvious—the pain, the loss, all plain to see there in Hermann’s words, _but—_

“You’re…_hopeful,_ at the end,” he murmurs, not even realising he’s the spoken until the words are out. “You are, aren’t you? That's—” he swallows heavily.

Hermann draws his hand away from Newt’s shoulder; squeezes it into a fist before he slowly releases it. “Yes,” he admits, softly. “I'd—I’d forgotten I’d written that. It’s…” he pauses, then continues. “The first few lines, I wrote only a few months after you left. The second part—well,” he looks down. “It was something of a cathartic exercise, to spill words out onto paper; attempt to parse my emotions, you understand.”

“Yeah,” Newt says, quietly.

“I think the third part was the last thing I put into that notebook,” Hermann says, “it was right after you were cleared. And then I put it in a box of things that got put into storage, and I’d…forgotten about it until now.”

“It’s…” Newt searches for the words; comes up empty.

“Yes,” Hermann agrees; somehow understanding what he means without his needing to voice it. “I—to be quite honest, I never thought you’d see it, but…I think, perhaps, that it was cathartic for you to read it.”

Newt nods. “Yeah,” he says, “you, uh, really have a way with words. And I…it’s good, the end, I mean. The hope, you know? Like, that was a seriously fucked up time for both of us, but for you especially—hell, I’m surprised we managed to get _here._”

“In a good way, I hope,” Hermann says, an edge of light-heartedness to his tone, and Newt lets out something like a laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “in a good way. I’m…_happy,_ you know. And I hope you are, too.”

“_Yes,_” Hermann replies. “Now, perhaps we could get to unpacking the rest?”

This time, Newt _does_ laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
